


Let It Out

by Anonymous



Series: 'Let It Out' [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Fetish, Kink, M/M, Mpreg (fetish - not actual mpreg), Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was a strange combination of self-indulgent and abstemious.  He gorged himself on his favourite flavours of knowledge, consumed puzzles like most people worked their way through giant Toblerones.  He ate up praise, admiration and wonderment and never seemed to grow full.  At points in his past he’d binged on cocaine whenever the craving arose.  But he seemed to pride himself on hovering above the need for food, and often sexual gratification, too.</p>
<p>Tonight was a wonderful anomaly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Out

They weren’t kinky.  John wouldn’t describe either of them as ‘vanilla’, precisely.  That term was a little too sickly and generic for what they had.  But they certainly weren’t kinky.  Only in the sense, perhaps, that they liked sex hard and fast, and occasionally furtive, and didn’t dwell on it too lengthily or romantically.  John had imagined, when they’d first kissed hungrily in the kitchen spurred by nothing, really, other than a lingering tension they finally needed to channel into something, that Sherlock would have a room in his mind palace stuffed to the brim with kinks so obscure they boggled the mind.  This wasn’t the case.  Or if it was, Sherlock certainly hadn’t visited that room since the advent of their sexual relationship.

Which made it all the more delicious when, eventually, it happened.

John was on the cusp of sleep when Sherlock fell heavily into bed.  He was tempted to shrug off the startlement and burrow back into the pillow, but he resisted – Sherlock was late, and John wanted to at least tell him off before he went back to sleep.  When he tried to free his arms from beneath the duvet, he found them trapped – Sherlock was still atop the covers, and his weight was pinning the duvet flat over John.  John wrestled his arms free and sat up against the headboard.

Sherlock was flat on his back, shoeless, but still socked.  He’d discarded his Belstaff, but his shirt was still on and buttoned.  His eyes were closed and his breathing was a little laboured.

‘You said you’d be back by midnight at the latest,’ said John.  He was unperturbed by Sherlock’s odd behaviour.  He wasn’t even sure, come to think of it, whether he had an objective sense of what was odd any longer, after living so long with Sherlock.  Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he fixed John with a level gaze.

‘Sorry.’

John was taken aback slightly at the apology.  _Now_ he was concerned.   

‘Are you alright?’ he asked, quickly.

‘I’m drunk,’ said Sherlock, in an ironically crisp and sober voice.  John thought for a moment he might be joking, but looking at him for a moment more, he saw that Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed, and his lower lip was stained purple in the creases from red wine.  Leaning in, John could smell the wine, and cigarette smoke.  Tomato sauce, chocolate and coffee.  Sherlock smelled like an Italian restaurant.

‘Good for you,’ said John, a little facetiously.  He took the sting out of it by laying a cool hand on Sherlock’s forehead, brushing aside the dark curls.  Sherlock was sweating slightly.

‘Bloody – why are these things necessary?  What time is it?’  Now John detected the slight slur – the weight of inebriation held behind a damn of self-control.

‘Half past three.  He kept you out late, then.  I was worried.’

‘Couldn’t leave.  He’d planned a ten course… whatever.  Meal.  So much fucking _wine_.’

Sherlock had been insistent he could wine and dine one of the biggest crime bosses in London, wheedle out of him the details of a massive upcoming sting.  Lestrade would be ecstatic.  Sherlock, though, hadn’t entirely banked on the necessity of keeping up with his quarry as he chased him over ten courses of antipasto, mains and extravagant desserts, forcibly lubricated by three whole bottles of expensive Merlot between the two of them.  The pressure to keep up was significant – he wanted to ingratiate himself to his host, and prove he could handle anything he set in front of him.  Towards the end of the evening, however, Sherlock was so fuzzy that he couldn’t be sure he’d remember any of the valuable information he’d charmingly extorted.

‘You really are a lightweight,’ said John, now, as he began to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt from the top.

‘Oh,’ sighed Sherlock, his head falling to the side to face John.  ‘You’re so fucking sexy.’

John laughed.

‘Thanks.  He abandoned the buttons when he reached Sherlock’s clavicle and reached down to undo Sherlock’s fly.  The waistband of his trousers looked tight.

‘Are you full?’ he asked, laying a warm hand on top of Sherlock’s belly.  It seemed distended, straining a little against the shirt buttons.  The muscles of Sherlock’s abdomen, though, felt tight.  ‘You’re sucking it in!’ exclaimed John, with glee.

‘I am not,’ insisted Sherlock, batting away John’s hand.

‘You _are_ ,’ said John, tossing away the duvet and shifting closer to Sherlock, pulling down the zipper of his fly and placing his hand back on Sherlock’s belly.  John was wearing only boxers and a thin undervest, and the cool air of the bedroom made brought his legs out in goose bumps.  In contrast, his face felt suddenly as hot and red as Sherlock’s.  ‘Let it out.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’  The wine flush on Sherlock’s cheeks had spread across most of his face.  It was redder than John had ever seen it.

‘Let go of your belly.  You’re _sucking it in_ ,’ said John again.

‘Urgh,’ said Sherlock, and relaxed his stomach muscles, letting his abdomen expand into John’s hand.  John thrilled at the sudden feel of it ballooning under his palm, the pressure spreading his fingers out, stretching the tendons in his hand.  Sherlock lifted his head to look at his own stomach – from where he lay, it seemed towering.  He cringed, embarrassed.

John was contemplating Sherlock in fascinated arousal.  He found it, if he was honest, a strange and alluring sight.  Sherlock was a strange combination of self-indulgent and abstemious.  He gorged himself on his favourite flavours of knowledge, consumed puzzles like most people worked their way through giant Toblerones.  He ate up praise, admiration and wonderment and never seemed to grow full.  At points in his past he’d binged on cocaine whenever the craving arose.  But he seemed to pride himself on hovering above the need for food, and often sexual gratification, too.

Tonight was a wonderful anomaly.

John took away his hand reluctantly and undid another shirt button, exposing a little more of Sherlock’s hairless chest.

‘It’s okay,’ said John, looking with hungry interest at Sherlock’s full tummy, small slivers of pale flesh now poking between the buttons, pushing up and out towards freedom.  ‘It’s cute.’  He moved his hand down to Sherlock’s middle and stroked a bare patch of skin between his navel and groin.

‘Oh,’ said Sherlock – a little breath, almost a moan.  ‘Don’t.  It’s….’

‘It’s ok,’ said John, again.  Serious and quiet, he sat up on his knees and looked down at Sherlock’s belly.  He stroked again through that particular gap in the shirt – the one just above his groin.  Watching the pale eye of the opening dilate and contract with Sherlock’s slow breaths.  Then he moved his finger upwards and found the gap that exposed Sherlock’s navel, peeking through the strained shirt to glimpse the air.  It was twice the size it usually was, and half as shallow, stretched and almost-perfectly circular.  The fleshy nub that was usually nestled quite deeply inside, a barely-visible knot in the darkness of the small hole, was raised, emerging curiously from the crater, aspiring towards being an outie but not quite accomplishing it.  John touched the belly button gently.  Stroked it, running his finger around its perimeter and then dipping inside to feel the nub, fiddling with it slowly and softly like he would a woman’s clitoris.  Sherlock began to breathe out sounds – low grumbles, like a big cat purring.

‘You’ve eaten so much,’ said John, his breath hitching with excitement.  ‘You…’ he took a deep breath, and decided to push the boat out, ‘You greedy boy.’

All was silent for a second.  Sherlock’s distended stomach even ceased moving as he paused in breathing, standing on the cusp of something great and exciting.  Then the tension broke, and, Sherlock said, a little desperately,

‘The rest of the buttons.’

John undid the buttons in the middle first, those above and below Sherlock’s navel, so that his bulbous tummy stood out framed by the tight shirt.  It made it look even larger.

‘That feel better?’ asked John, breathily, and Sherlock nodded in agreement.  ‘Want a tummy rub?’

‘Mmmm.’

John spread his hands over the taut skin of Sherlock’s belly.  The soft, downy hairs on its surface excited him, and he thrilled with a small jolt of arousal whenever he felt the little protruding core of Sherlock’s burgeoning belly button tickle his palm.

‘Oh my God,’ said John, feeling guilty and naughty and astonished at himself, ‘You could be pregnant.’

Sherlock was peering woozily and with slight disbelief at his taut, round middle, shivering as John’s hands soothed the stretched skin and stoked surprising arousal that blossomed from his groin and filled his belly to the brim, warm and tingling.

‘Could I?’ asked Sherlock, somewhat provocatively.

John licked his lips.  How far could he take this?  Sherlock had seemed embarrassed at first, but now looked entirely unprotesting.  Even curious.

‘I’ve monitored women throughout their pregnancies before.  A stint in maternity during med school.  You’d be...’  He framed Sherlock’s stomach in his hands, as though gauging the size and position of an imaginary foetus, ‘Five months along.’  Before he pushed any further, he thought it best to ask.  Just in case.  ‘Sherlock,’ he said, in a low, neutral voice, ‘Do you want to play with me like this?’

Sherlock’s eyes were closed again.  He took a deep breath through his nose.

‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘Let’s.’

This was it.  This was the most unexpected of all the kinks John had pictured crammed into the dusty attic of Sherlock’s mind palace, but it made it no less thrilling.  They’d fallen into something so deliciously kinky that John’s mind boggled at it.

John undid the final two buttons of Sherlock’s shirt – the ones above and below his belly, and let it settle, round out, slightly larger in its newfound freedom.

‘Stay on your back,’ said John.  ‘It’s best if I examine you in that position.’

Sherlock nodded.  John thought for a moment that he saw Sherlock catch his lower lip between his teeth and school his mouth away from an involuntary smile of amusement, but he couldn’t be sure.  In truth, Sherlock was stricken with the urge to laugh, partly at the absurdity of it, partly from the warm tide of wine-drunkenness licking at his funny bone, partly from the tickle on his sensitive stomach.  He sensed, though, that he should wait until the game was finished until he let loose his mirth.  For now, it seemed important that they were serious.

‘Right,’ said John, cradling Sherlock’s stomach in his hands, one on the top beneath his ribcage, and one on the bottom, conforming to the curve above his pubis, ‘Yes.  You’re quite big, considering how far along you are.  How do you feel?’

‘I don’t know…’ Sherlock paused, before decisively enunciating, ‘Doctor.’  John felt himself harden entirely inside his boxers, despite the urge to laugh.  ‘I feel… alright.  Big.  Yes.  I feel big.  I feel as though I’m… waddling already, when I walk.’

‘Do you now?’ John could barely breathe.  ‘You don’t have any stretchmarks.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Sherlock.

John lowered his face until he came nose to nose with Sherlock’s belly.  He made a show of scrutinising its surface for stretchmarks.  ‘Quite sure.  Any problems?  Discomforts?’

‘Urgh.  Let me think.  My belly… my belly feels heavy and tight.  My navel aches.  A little.’

‘I can recommend some cream,’ exclaimed John, with a tone of excitement that betrayed the sentiment, ‘ _Why didn’t I think of that before now!_ ’  He leapt almost too eagerly from the bed and rummaged in the bathroom cabinet for Sherlock’s Nivea Men’s moisturiser, and hurried back into the bedroom.  Kneeling again beside Sherlock on the mattress, he uncapped the bottle and, with amazing precision, squirted a tiny swirl of moisturiser in a neat curl, like the whipped topping on an ice cream, just above Sherlock’s belly button.  Sherlock’s tummy twitched in shock at the cold.

‘Lie still, and relax.  This should make you feel better.’

John used first a fingertip to spread the cream in wider circle, the size of a fifty pence coin, and then used the whole palm of his left hand to work it across Sherlock’s round belly.  When the whole surface was smooth and shining, he uncapped the bottle again and dabbed a little moisturiser onto his finger, and then dipped it into Sherlock’s belly button, rubbing it in and making it slippery, fondling the little fleshy nub, which became elusive in the slide of the cream as John tried to pinch and squeeze it lightly.

‘Will that… pop out entirely?’ asked Sherlock, moaning at the decadent feel of the cool cream on his tight, bulging stomach.  The pressure behind his navel was incredible – he could feel it stretching, gaping and tugging at the apex of his bloated middle, as though a tiny person was pushing from within, coaxing it to pop.  The cream soothed the tightness like a scratch soothed an itch – oh.  He sat up a little.  Looked at his belly.  Shiny from the cream.  Round as a watermelon.

‘Probably,’ said John.  ‘Probably… pop out, like a… cooked turkey.’

‘I’ll get bigger?  You want to see me bigger?’

‘You’ll get bigger.  You’ll get so round.  You won’t be able to see your feet.  You’ll be so big.’

‘Jerk me off,’ said Sherlock, startling John and breaking the mood of the game entirely in his desperation.  John didn’t mind.  He pulled down Sherlock’s trousers and pants and wrapped his hand around his cock and jerked him off, quick and hard, slick from the remaining lotion on his palm.  ‘Suck me off,’ said Sherlock, and John bent down and sucked Sherlock’s slippery cock into his mouth, sucking long and hard, ignoring the starchy, fragrant taste of the moisturiser.  All the while Sherlock rubbed his own belly, circled his own navel quickly with a forefinger, used the other hand to manipulate John’s head into bobbing faster on his prick.  He came hard down John’s throat, and no sooner had John swallowed than he sat up, a string of spit and semen stretching and snapping between Sherlock’s limp prick and his bottom lip, and pushed down his boxers to masturbate, shuffling forward on his knees to rub the tip of his glans against Sherlock’s belly as he jerked himself mercilessly.  When he came, it was in ribbons across Sherlock’s stomach, and he watched with sated eyes as Sherlock rubbed it slowly and deliberately into his skin along with the moisturiser.

John flopped onto his back on the mattress, and there was a long minute of dazed, satisfied silence.

Only then, did they both dissolve into fits of laughter.

‘What the _fuck_ was that?’ said John.

Sherlock beamed at him.

‘It was kinky,’ he said.  ‘I loved it.  We’ll do it again tomorrow.’


End file.
